


Gracie

by Rozel



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:22:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7485987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rozel/pseuds/Rozel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle crosses the London gangs. The situation opens up a whole new possibility for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gracie

**Author's Note:**

> This is linked to the 'Observations' series which happen after this. Grateful thanks to 'Nurse Karen' who checked over the medical bits for me.

I don’t own the characters of Bodie and Doyle, or any others from the TV series. They belong to Mark One Productions and Brian Clemens. I borrow them to write fiction for my own (and hopefully your) pleasure, with no knowing financial gain to myself or anyone else.

GRACIE

“What am I supposed to do when the best part of me was always you” C The Script

 

Ray Doyle and William Bodie were not happy bunnies. Following a tip off from Marty Martell ‘for old times’ sake, Bodie’ they had arrived around noon at the deserted warehouse complex on Woolwich Reach, fully expecting to observe a low key, routine meeting between two local gangs, the Deptford Guns and the New Cross Presidents. Despite the pretensions of sounding like American gangs, these two were predominantly local Irish boys.

The agents had spent several hours in a hot and stuffy derelict caravan parked on the site, bored and bickering; Doyle sniping about yet another refusal on his expense form, while Bodie taunted his partner over the financial rectitude shown by George Cowley, when presented with his agent’s claim.

‘I know entrance to the club and six Whisky Sours was pushing it, but even so, I got the info he wanted,’ grumbled Doyle.

‘Ah, but you could have taken Reg Gibson to the Lamb and Flag, sunshine. You’d have been happier too. That new Stringfellow’s Club was way out of your league. More my scene if I might say... how you ever managed to get your tousled little head and bohemian appearance through the door is beyond me. What did you do? Tell them you were a rock star...’

Bodie suddenly paused in the gentle ribbing of his friend, his whole demeanour changing.

‘Hello, what’s going on over there...?’ He peered out of the grimy window and into the early evening light.

‘Ray...’

Doyle ceased moaning and slipped over to the window. Bodie pointed across to two vans that had just driven into the yard. The doors opened and a large number of sullen faced young men, some carrying baseball bats or sawn off shotguns spilled out. The tension fairly crackled in the air as each group faced off against the other. Circling likes wolves, they wove around, probing their opposite number for a weakness. Then without warning, one lad swung his bat wide and caught his opponent across the face. There was a sickening sound and the young man’s face was covered in blood. Immediately both gangs went on the attack. The agents stared through the windows as youths scattered, seeking what cover they could find, while others began firing wildly, uncaring who got hit. The assailant who had begun the assault lay on the ground, choking on his own blood, his body hit by bullets from his own gang as well as the other side. Another fell with a scream and clutched his stomach.

Doyle ducked down out of sight, pulling Bodie with him, as the random gunshots ricocheted off buildings, abandoned machinery and other detritus.

‘What did you do to piss off Marty this time?’ muttered Doyle. He crouched down as yet another stray bullet whistled past the caravan. Bodie, fastidiously flicked a piece of debris from his cuff.

‘Well... it might have been something to do with his lady friend...’ He looked at Doyle before a huge grin stole across his features. ‘Just kidding mate. Marty’s too important to get on his wrong side. My guess is he didn’t know how this would go down.’

Bodie peeked over the sill. ‘I’ll call George. We seem to be rather outnumbered. We need some back up.’ He fumbled in his jacket for his R/T. ‘3.7 calling Alpha One.’

‘Alpha One here. What’s all that noise Bodie – isn’t a wee bit early for partying – even by your standards?’

Bodie sighed theatrically, ‘It’s a bit more than that, sir.’ He coughed as the dust caught in his throat. ‘That information from Marty Martell... the situation is slightly more serious than we thought.’ He winked at Doyle as yet another wildly aimed shot shattered the window above them. ‘Could do with some help sir... sooner the better.’ He sneezed.

‘On its way,’ came the terse reply.

Bodie looked across to his partner. ‘I suggest we make our way round the back of that warehouse, and wait for the others. Get an idea of how many we’re up against. Anyway the atmosphere in here is doing my nose more harm than good.’

Doyle nodded in agreement, and the agents stealthily left the caravan into the humidity of a warm London night. They checked their surroundings before making swift progress to the far side of the site. They would have probably reached the safety of buildings and other vehicles had not Bodie screwed up his eyes and sneezed violently several times, before falling over some building debris. The noise was enough to bring two men running from behind an abandoned truck. They slowed when they caught sight of the two CI5 agents; one hefted a pump action, sawn-off shotgun, while the other brought round a semi automatic gun. Both pointed at the CI5 agents.

Doyle skidded to a halt, offering his hand to his partner. Bodie groaned and staggered to his feet, rubbing his knee. Both agents kept a steady eye on the gunmen. Neither group said a word. The taller gunman lazily took aim and fired. Both CI5 agents dove for cover. The fast encroaching darkness and the lack of lighting on the site helped as they each found a temporary haven from the gunman. Doyle yanked his gun from its holster and shot off three rounds in quick succession. He heard Bodie let loose a similar barrage. Further gunfire spat at their feet.

The two assailants, well protected and safe, fired at the CI5 men struggling to keep limbs and heads behind what little cover there was.

‘Can’t see the bastards anywhere,’ growled Bodie.

He looked across for his partner. Doyle was crouched behind a crate, busily reloading his weapon. In the distance, he could hear sirens and the screech of tyres.

‘Can you make it across to the car?’ He yelled across at Bodie.

‘Might do. Cover me. I’ll be back!’ With that, Bodie rolled away from his hiding place and sprinted into the darkness. Doyle fired repeatedly at the direction of the muzzle flashes, protecting his partner as best he could.

Bodie threw himself into the car and started it up. Above the noise Doyle heard the comforting whine of the Capri, and caught sight of the vehicle as it fishtailed from side to side, its tyres kicking up dust and grit as it came flying towards him. Bodie braked hard, sending the car into a sideways skid.

‘Get in Ray!’ Doyle jumped up and began running towards the car. He momentarily halted as the windscreen disappeared from a well aimed bullet. He saw Bodie waving frantically, and ran faster. He wasn’t expecting the heavy thud in the middle of his back which sent him sprawling on the ground. One of the gunmen stood over him, the barrel of the shotgun jammed into the back of Doyle’s head.

He called across to Bodie, his voice surprisingly light and lilting. ‘You... the cop – if you want your friend to live, fuck off!’

He dug the barrel hard into Doyle’s shoulders. Bodie watched helplessly as the man dragged Doyle to his feet and backed away into the shadows.

Even the close proximity of the sirens, signifying the imminent arrival of the police and the rest of the squad didn’t help. He stood there impotent with rage, unable to fire in case he hit Doyle. He watched as the three men disappeared back behind the truck. Several cars barrelled into the yard and screeched to a messy halt, all angles and dust.

George Cowley limped out of the first vehicle, followed by Murphy and Williams. They made their way towards Bodie.

‘What happened? This was supposed to be a routine observation.’ Cowley fairly crackled with anger.

Bodie tersely explained what had happened and why he hadn’t fired.

‘Where did they go?’ asked Cowley. He gestured to Murphy and Williams to search for the missing agent.

‘You’re losing your edge, both of you,’ he snarled at Bodie. ‘Letting yourselves be taken by a couple of youths. Yes Bodie,’ he held up a hand as the young agent glowered at him, ‘that’s all they were... a couple of pimply faced youths.’

‘But very well equipped youths sir,’ replied Bodie, sharply. ‘... and not afraid to shoot.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ retorted his boss.

He cocked an ear towards the initial battle ground. The shooting became sporadic before finally stopping, to be replaced by police officers shouting instructions to the remaining gang members. In the distance Bodie heard the mournful wail of an ambulance.

‘That little display of temper is over, but has left us with another problem,’ said Cowley. ‘It wasn’t, as your friend Marty said “an arms deal between two disaffected groups.” These two gangs are the sons and nephews of the O’Dowd and Riordan groups in London. Youngsters intent on proving their worth to the old country. Taking first blood. An argument over stolen arms and ammunition. Now we’re likely to have a gang war on our hands over here while they sort themselves out. He stomped across the empty site.

‘...and now they have Doyle,’ muttered Bodie.

He saw Murphy and Williams jogging back towards the cars. Murphy saw him and shook his head.

‘Looks like they had a car waiting sir,’ said Murphy. ‘Fresh tyre tracks out towards a small alley way. No sign of Doyle,’ he added.

‘Well, lean on your contacts and find him,’ retorted the man. ‘Lord knows it costs enough to train you.’

He got in his car and wound down the window. He looked less angry and more concerned as he motioned for Bodie to come across.

‘Find him as soon as you can laddie. The IRA do not like the security services. Call me as soon as you have anything. Anything at all.’ He drove away quickly.

 

Three days later, Bodie had spoken to every known snitch, friend of a snitch or disaffected gang member he knew, finally being given a tenuous lead.

Now seated in the Harp of Erin in Deptford, he raised a pint of lager to his mouth and surveyed the clientele. The ‘regulars’ eyed the groups of lunchtime workers with disdain, while a few tourists in search of a London off the beaten track, ventured to the bar for crisps and beers.

In the smaller bar, sitting with a group of almost pretty young boys round a table was the man Bodie wanted to talk to.

His morning’s work among the less salubrious community in south London had paid off; rather than face another stint at Her Majesty’s pleasure, the pond life known as Mickey O’Fearon had rolled over and talked, telling Bodie of Philo Jenkins ‘who might, just might, be able to help you Bodie, but please don’t tell him you got that from me.

Philo had been an athletic, almost beautiful man in his youth, but years of playing to both sides of the criminal gangs and living the expensive life style he craved, had taken its toll. His expensive suit barely contained his body, and his neck sat on rolls of fat. Only his hands, tiny and feminine, the nails manicured and oddly shiny, and his fingers adorned with diamond pinkie rings looked out of place.

Philo stood up and drained his cocktail glass. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Set them up again Mikey, I’m off for a whiz.’ His high toned voice seemed too small for his build.

He lumbered towards the gentlemen’s loo without a backward glance. Bodie pushed his lager to one side and followed him. He pushed open the door just as Philo, with a contented sigh, released a stream of urine into the toilet. Bodie waited until the man had finished his ablutions and zipped up his trousers. As he began to wash his hands, Philo caught sight of the tall man watching him in the mirror.

‘Hey, fella, you should be careful how you look at people. There’s a pub for your sort up the road.’ He reached for a paper towel before turning to face Bodie square on.

The CI5 man flicked a bored glance at Philo. ‘You’d know of course,’ he replied drily. ‘Anyway, I’m too old for you, so I’ve heard.’

‘Are you calling me a nonce?’ Philo demanded. He took offense at Bodie’s inference, partly through anger and partly through fear. He’d spent years hiding his predilection for young boys and had no idea how this dark, hard looking man had come about such information. As far as Philo was concerned, whoever had spilled the beans about _this_ particular foible, had signed their own death warrant.

Philo lunged towards the agent, ready to give him a beating. He growled deep in his throat as he motioned for Bodie to come forward.

‘Come here feller, and let me put you to rights...’ His voice reached an even higher pitch as Bodie forced Philo’s arm into an unnatural angle. ‘Get off me you fecking thug.’ He twisted around to release the pressure on his shoulder.

‘I want some information, then you can go back to your young friends and your pink gin,’ said Bodie smoothly. He pushed Philo’s arm even higher. The fat man lessened his struggle.

‘What the feck do you want? I don’t even know you. I’m just a businessman.’ He’d ceased moving now, and stared at Bodie over his shoulder.

‘I’m reliably informed you know about that little debacle at the docks the other night. My friend went missing and you might know where he is.’

Philo’s eyes narrowed as he weighed up his options. To help him, Bodie kicked the man’s feet from under him, hiding a smile as the large man slipped on the wet floor, the knees of his expensive trousers darkening with a mixture of piss and water. Philo groaned as the pressure on his shoulder joint intensified.

‘Alright, alright, let me up you bastard.’ Bodie pulled the man to his feet and in a fluid movement pushed Philo backwards into one of the stalls. The man sat heavily on the toilet, gasping and rubbing his shoulder. He looked up at his assailant, noting the broad shoulders and gun holster under a well cut jacket. Bodie’s eyes lasered on to Philo’s face.

‘I had nothing to do with that fecking mess,’ he began. ‘That was Pete Riordan and Paddy O’Dowd’s lads. Bunch of amateurs all trying to make their first blood. Caused no end of problem for those of us genuinely trying to find a solution to the Troubles.’ He attempted to look righteous and concerned.

Bodie gave him a contemptuous glance. ‘Save it. I couldn’t care less what damage you do to yourselves. I want to know what happened to my friend.’

Philo swallowed hard and looked up at his interrogator. ‘I’m not sure I can help you son,’ he said, weighing up exactly how the conversation would go. ‘It depends on what you can do for me if I can tell you anything of importance.’ He gave a sly look at Bodie. ‘What would I get out of such a bargain?’

Bodie had little time for niceties. He yanked his gun from its holster and pressed the muzzle against Philo’s head. ‘You get to keep your head on your fat shoulders, pal.’ He jabbed the gun hard.

Philo quickly weighed up the possibilities. If this... thug... went after Paddy O’ Dowd in his efforts to find his friend, it was one less concern for Philo. A win-win situation, he thought.

‘Your friend, would he be a curly haired man? Skinny little thing but handy with his fists and mouthy with it?’

Bodie considered this a fair description of Doyle. He nodded in assent. Philo pursed his pink little mouth and studied his nails, the diamond in his ring sparkling as it caught the light. ‘You should go to Greenwich Peninsula. It’s quiet there, no-one around. I hear that’s where your friend might be. Security services isn’t he... same as you...which makes you very unpopular around here.’

Bodie’s mouth tightened at the implied threat. ‘You’d better hope my friend is still in one piece,’ he said. ‘If not I’ll be back for you. I’m sure you know a lot more than you’re saying, and CI5 would be very interested to have a quiet little chat with you.’

With that he gave Philo a hard shove and swiftly walked out of the toilets. Bodie hurried back to the car and called through to HQ.

 

At the same time Bodie was having his chat with Philo, Grace Walker was re entering the UK. Six months away working in Milan had seemed like a dream at first, but truth to tell she missed London, her family and friends and her job. However, the secondment would look good on her CV and she had learned a lot from the Servizio Sanitario Nazionale; now it was time to return to her job at St Thomas’s Hospital. She walked through the green customs channel and out into the main concourse of the airport.

It was high summer, and the height of the holiday season. Everywhere she looked there were people setting off for their two weeks in the sun. A familiar silhouette caught her eye and she turned to see her father striding purposefully across the floor. She put down her luggage as he swept her into his arms.

‘Grace! You look wonderful darling. How was the flight?’ Graham Walker gazed with affection at his daughter.

The half year away in a warmer, sunnier climate appeared to agree with her. She was tanned, her violet blue eyes clear and sparkling, and the tumble of dark hair coloured by the merest hint of sun streaked highlights. Father and daughter linked arms and moved easily through the crowds. Graham Walker silently motioned towards a young man hovering in the background, to carry his daughter’s luggage. He found a trolley and loaded the items aboard, before hurrying after his boss. The Walkers chatted easily with each other as they walked through the airport and out into the fresh air.

A dark coloured Jaguar car was parked in a ‘No Waiting’ zone, its engine running softly. Grace raised her eyebrows at the direct flaunting of the sign as she climbed in the car.

Her father laughed softly. ‘Perks of being top dog’, he said. The car sped off and headed towards the M4 and the capital. ‘Glad to be back poppet?’ asked Graham.

‘I am Dad. Milan was amazing, but six months was enough. I missed everyone. The hospital staff were brilliant and I learned a huge amount from Mr Avalli. Trauma infection is a new strand of patient care, and I’m one of the few in this country who’s trained specifically in the discipline. Can’t wait to start back at Guys.’ Her father glanced affectionately at his daughter. Her enthusiasm for her job was evident. However, it had been a hard few months, with long hours and little time to socialise.

Graham Walker wondered how Grace had coped. ‘Any other plans, sweetheart? What about a few days rest?’ Grace replied, animated with her future plans. ‘No, I’m fine. I want to start work as soon as I can. I’ll phone a few people when I get home, let them know I’m back, arrange a few meets...’ A small smile lit up her face. ‘... and I want to get in contact with Ray Doyle again...’

 

Bodie drove towards the peninsula. It was a depressingly familiar site in south London; an area unloved and left to the elements. The main part was used as a glorified car park, car dump, meeting place for the more secretive. Dotted around were clumps of buddleia, straggled and bowed, and mountains of tyres fit for nothing. There were a couple of buildings, one listing heavily to one side, and an old motor barge moored at the pier, far away from the road.

Bodie bumped the Capri over the uneven tinder surface, crunching and bouncing in the ruts. The area was deserted. The afternoon sun had risen high and the summer heat was reaching record levels. Bodie stopped the car and wound down the window. The desolate cry of the gulls, and the slapping of the Thames against the wooden pier only added to the air of decrepitude. Across the river, Bodie watched the traffic crawl along the road leading to Billingsgate Fish Market and the City of London beyond.

He left the car and walked quietly around the site. He glanced into the derelict building, seeing nothing of interest. With a stealth at odds with his build, Bodie swung across the hard packed ground towards the second building. Carefully he nudged open the door with his gun and looked inside. This building was also empty; Bodie was about to leave when a glittering caught his eye. He stooped down and picked a plain silver bangle; it was bent and scratched. With a start Bodie realised it was also very similar to one Doyle often wore. He rubbed away some of the mud covering the item, hoping it was just a cheap piece of costume jewellery.

He pursed his lips as he read the inscription around the inside of the bracelet. ‘To Raymond. Hendon 1971. Love Kath’. His eyes narrowed; now he knew Doyle had been here.

He pocketed the bangle and crouched in the doorway of the building. The afternoon was as silent as the grave. The heat shimmered off the petrol and oil spillages dotted around the area, ethereal rainbows anchored to the earth. Bodie watched for several minutes, but the site remained quiet and empty.

He walked quickly to the barge and jumped lightly onto the deck. His feet sent a booming echo on the iron decking, a hollow sound, reverberating around the barge. He walked the length of the vessel and peered in the wheel house. It was sparse and with the minimum comforts, but a new-ish radio sat at a small table, along with sea charts of the waters around the Thames estuary and a notebook. Bodie glanced at the maps, noting they were covered with tide times. The notebook was full of numbers. Stuffing it into his pocket, he left the wheel house and walked across to the cargo area. He stared into the depths of the vessel, all senses finely tuned. He saw reflections in the water sloshing around the bottom of the barge. It was apparent that this vessel hadn’t been at sea for a while.

Bodie jumped lightly on to a walkway running around the hold. Despite the bright sun, the interior was dark and forbidding. He could see a false floor had been built in at the bow end of the barge. Curiosity aroused, he lowered himself on to the floor, and surveyed the space. It was lined with shelves, now bare. Coils of rope were neatly stacked at one end. Bodie thought it was a low grade smuggling operation; a few lighter-men trying to make some money on the side.

He was about to climb back up to the shore when he heard a coughing. Dragging his gun free of its holster he ducked back into the shadows. He tried to locate the direction of the cough, but the echo from the barge interior made it hard. He stood stock still, glad to be out of the sun, but aware how stuffy and rank smelling the barge was. The coughing began again, a rasping, crackling noise. Bodie turned round, and surveyed the poorly lit interior. He sighed to himself as he made his way deeper into the gloomy interior. Probably some junkie or other person who wanted to stay away from prying eyes. He moved, silent and alert through the barge. The torpid water at the bottom of the vessel moved slowly to the sway of the tide, as if it was all too much effort.

Bodie wrinkled his nose at the combined aroma of oil, seaweed and decay, as he climbed down narrow, rusting steps. He paused, retuning his senses to the vibrations of the enclosed area. The coughing began again, only to change to a wheezing, dry hack. Bodie turned towards the direction of the noise.

 _Typical_ , he thought. _As far away from the steps as possible, and through all this shit. Should have bought me wellies_.

He stepped gingerly into the water, sighing as it rose above his ankles, leaching up his cord trousers. Bodie moved as silently as possible, the water rippling outwards at each step as he made his way across the bottom of the barge. The light dimmed and soon he was straining to see anything. He continued wading through the water to the furthest confines of the boat. The coughing began again, and Bodie traced its destination to a huddled figure, arms chained to a pipe above the man’s head.

Bodie roared as he began splashing through the stinking effluence. All pretence at stealth was abandoned. He yelled out one word. That was enough for the man to raise his head, and for Bodie to see the damage inflicted upon his friend.

‘Ray!’

 

The building had a life of its own; a quiet hum that continued twenty four hours a day. Air conditioning, pumps and medical equipment, heating and the swish of the lift doors. Never ending.

Ray Doyle lay in a room off the main ward. The curtains were drawn round his bed, while the other served as a seat to a glowering Bodie. George Cowley stared down at his employee. He winced at the drip, following the tubing down as it disappeared into Doyle’s vein. He took in the swollen eye, the greyish pallor and the heavy bruising across the man’s chest. He saw the myriad of lacerations crawling across his agent’s body, some reddened with infection, others painted with some form of antiseptic. He saw the deep wounds around the man’s wrists where he had been chained to a ring used for strapping cargo in place. Doyle had obviously attempted to free himself, to no avail.

Cowley stared at the raised welts on the agent’s shoulders. He shook his head and turned to a tall man in a well cut suit, who was looking at a file.

‘Well, Robert. How is he?’

Robert Burton-Jones looked at his old friend. ‘George, I do hope you pay your lads danger money.’ He gestured towards the slim figure in the bed. ‘They go through an awful lot for you.’

Cowley made no reply, but pursed his lips at the gentle reprimand.

‘This man has been badly beaten. He has severe bruising and some deep lacerations across his torso. The good news is that it will all heal in time. There’s nothing to cause any lasting effect as far as I can tell...’

Cowley watched the doctor shrewdly. ‘What’s the ‘but’, Robert?’ he asked, ‘I can hear it already...’

The tall man sighed and looked at his patient before turning to the head of CI5. ‘The ‘but’ George, is that Ray Doyle has a temperature of 104C, somewhat inconsistent with his physical damage. He’s also coughing... a great deal. I’ve sent blood samples for testing which should tell me more. Where was he found?’

Cowley recalled Bodie’s earlier, descriptive message. He left out the more colourful language in his reply.

‘He was found in a barge south of the river, lying in some effluence or other. From what I can make out he thinks he’d been there for a couple of days. It seems to me Robert, that he was left there for one reason only – to die. Nobody does that to my men!’

'I’ll call you when I know more, George.’ The tall doctor shook hands with the head of CI5 and walked away.

Cowley turned to Bodie. He looked bleakly at the agent. ‘I understand you have already apprehended the two men responsible for this!’ He jerked a finger towards Doyle. ‘I also know they are both being treated here for injuries.’ Cowley raised an eyebrow. ‘Nothing to do with you I hope, Bodie.’

Bodie raised himself up from the bed, his mouth cruel and hard. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing to do with me, sir. They both tripped and fell down some stairs while resisting arrest.’ Cowley gave a long, hard look at Bodie. Granite jawed and blue eyes with a thousand yard stare, he refused to look at his boss.

‘I have already spoken to both factions involved in this fracas... told them to keep it in house... not to bring their petty arguments on to my streets. Now I have to tell them that two of their young men ‘fell down stairs’ while resisting arrest! You don’t make my job easy, Bodie.’

Cowley turned towards the door. ‘I want your report on my desk this afternoon please. Names, details and any other information.’ He half smiled at the man. ‘I’ll write the accident report myself.’

 

Robert Burton-Jones put down his coffee and frowned as he read through Ray Doyle’s medical file. There was no change in the man’s condition overnight; the healing process was slow, but as expected. The bruising and most of the small lacerations were better. However, wounds to Doyle’s shoulder and chest were proving stubborn – infection not only present, but not responding to antibiotics, even to some of the more obscure drugs.

Burton-Jones also noted the cough was persistent, and his patient’s temperature had remained high for several days. He was concerned that such factors would result in long term damage for the man. Reaching a decision, he left his office and strode to the bank of lifts that served the high rise hospital. Selecting the floor number, he rode in silence to a small private wing where Doyle lay.

As usual Bodie was asleep in the chair near the bed. The man had barely left his partner’s side for the past few days, carrying out Cowley’s orders and then returning to the room.

The doctor wondered at how these young men were able to function, knowing each day could be their last. It took, he decided, a special type of man. However if they had been chosen by George Cowley for the job, then they were very special men indeed. He gently shook the sleeping Bodie awake.

‘Mr Bodie, I need some time with my patient. Could you wait outside please?’

Bodie grunted, rubbed his eyes and arched his back. He rose stiffly from the chair and nodded at the doctor. ‘I’ll go and grab some tea and something to eat,’ he replied.

Burton-Jones carefully lifted the sheet away from Doyle’s body. To all outward signs, he was sleeping peacefully. However Doyle’s skin was sheened with sweat, while he shivered and tried to pull the bedclothes closer to him. The wounds stood out red and angry, against the pallor. The doctor listened to Doyle’s breathing, the unmistakable sound of crackles coming from his lungs. He checked further details on a file and then replaced the covers. He walked across the room to a telephone and dialled a number.

‘Oh, good morning. It’s Mr Burton-Jones. I’m in the Queen Mary wing, room 6. Could you please contact Major Cowley at CI5 and then check to see if Grace Walker is in today? Thank you.’

 

Cowley sat in the car letting his thoughts roam while his driver, an ex policewoman named Wendy, expertly negotiated her way through the busy traffic. He knew Burton-Jones wouldn’t have called unless things were not right. He picked up Doyle’s file and skimmed through the details. There were a lot of medical papers: concussions, broken limbs, serious gunshot wounds, beatings, as well as a number of injuries deemed minor; bruises, muscular strains and sprains. Doyle fought hard when required and always bounced back from such physical damage with a philosophical approach – if the job called for it, then it was done.

This time Cowley sensed there was more. Burton-Jones was concerned about infection and Doyle’s high temperature. Unseen damage to the man. Cowley tutted to himself as he turned the pages.

Wendy watched her boss in the mirror. She knew he would never admit to having favourites among his staff, but Bodie and Doyle were apart from the rest. For whatever reasons, Cowley worried more about them, was tougher on them and more forgiving of them. _Just like they were his own_ , she thought.

She brought the car to a halt outside St Thomas’s hospital, ignoring the small uniformed security man hurrying towards the vehicle, waving his arms. Cowley was up and out the car as she showed the official her identification, before hastening after the head of CI5.

The security man scowled at her receding form. _Young women getting above themselves with their ‘careers’ and self importance_ – he sniffed loudly and moved back to the gate house by the parking barrier.

Wendy joined her boss at the reception desk, where Cowley was speaking with another uniformed staff member. ‘... Queen Mary wing, you say. What floor is that on?’ He thanked the man and turned towards the bank of lifts, the bells pinging softly announcing their arrivals.

He ushered Wendy into the next available lift, and blocked any further entrants to it. ‘Official business,’ he barked as a man tried to stop the doors from closing. ‘Please wait for the next lift.’

Once the lift began to ascend, Cowley leaned back. ‘I wonder why Doyle is being kept in a private wing,’ he snorted, ‘goodness knows how much that’ll cost us.’

Wendy answered. ‘It’s a specially designated unit, sir, for patients who need a high level of care. It’s a new idea... some of the big teaching hospitals are trying them out.’

Cowley snorted again. ‘So Doyle rates a high level of care, does he. Whatever has the man been up to this time.’

Wendy remained silent. Cowley had demonstrated his concern merely by his apparently sarcastic comments.

The lift arrived at its destination and the doors slid open. Unlike other areas of the hospital, the private wing was quiet and calm. The sound of various items of medical equipment, and the soft foot falls of the staff were the only sounds. Cowley strode up to the nurses’ station and showed his ID card. Immediately, he heard a muted tannoy call for Robert Burton-Jones. He and Wendy stood quietly waiting for the consultant.

It wasn’t long before he saw the doctor walking purposefully along the corridor. He held his hand out. ‘George, thanks for coming. You wanted to be kept abreast of Doyle’s condition.’

Cowley nodded. ‘Aye. How is he?’

Burton-Jones led the way to an office, motioning for them to sit.

‘Frankly George, I’m worried. Physically he’s taken a beating, nothing broken, but some nasty lacerations and bruising. However, I’ve no idea how long he was left in the bottom of that barge. The water in the bottom was probably teeming with all sorts of bacteria – the upshot is he isn’t healing well, and I suspect he has pneumonia.’

The doctor sighed heavily. ‘Whatever, he isn’t responding to conventional antibiotics, not even in the large doses I’ve prescribed. There is a nasty open wound on his shoulder that is suppurating despite all efforts to control the infection. His temperature remains too high for my liking, and he has a cough which also doesn’t respond to treatment.’

Burton-Jones beckoned to a nurse. ‘Any chance of some tea Mary?’

The nurse spoke. ‘Yes sir, I’ll bring it here. I might even have a tin of biscuits behind the nurse’s station.’

She smiled at the group. ‘Thank you, that would be very kind of you,’ replied the doctor. She left the office and closed the door.

Burton-Jones turned back to Cowley and Wendy. ‘I’ve called in an expert in infections and their control. We’re lucky that she’s just come back from a secondment in Milan. Studied under a world renowned consultant in serology and the treatment of long term infection. I sent her Doyle’s notes – describing him as ‘Patient X’ of course. I know your penchant for confidentiality.’

George Cowley narrowed his eyes. ‘Erm, yes, you can’t be too careful now – the less people who now Doyle’s is here, the better. Now, what is this expert going to do?’

The doctor sat quietly for a moment. Raising his head he started at George Cowley.

‘I hope she can save Ray Doyle’s life,’ he replied.

 

The room fell silent. Wendy sat bolt upright in the chair, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. Cowley stared at the doctor with hard, bright eyes.

‘Are you serious, Robert? Is Doyle that ill?’ he said.

‘I’m afraid so, George. It’s this cough and lack of response to the drugs we’re giving him that’s causing the problem. No one can support such a high body temperature without severe consequences, and Doyle has already been here for three days with no discernible improvement in the level of infection. The bruising is fading, but that is quite secondary to his other symptoms. We’ve taken several blood samples and his obs every hour.’

The doctor passed a hand through his hair. ‘Frankly, I’m not sure what we’re up against. I’m hoping Grace Walker has some answers...’

‘What has Grace Walker got to do with this?’ demanded Cowley.

Burton-Jones looked up quickly; ‘she’s the expert I’ve called in George. Very knowledgeable, first class training and just back from a six month secondment in Milan where she worked with Gennaro Avalli, the leading expert in serolgy and infection control. She is one of the most qualified people in this country for this situation.’

The doctor’s look showed he was puzzled by the question.

Cowley waved his hand impatiently. ‘No matter, Robert. I recognise the name, that’s all. Came across in a routine background check about a year ago.’

Burton-Jones smiled. ‘Well her father is Graham Walker, head of the UK Anti-Terrorism Unit. Did you want to check up on her? I would have thought her credentials were above question.’

Cowley nodded, his mind clearly engaged elsewhere. He spoke quietly to Wendy, who left the room immediately.

The nurse entered almost as soon as Wendy left, bearing a tray with mugs of tea and a large tin of biscuits. She placed them on a small table, and spoke to Burton-Jones.

‘Grace Walker is here Mr Burton-Jones. Shall I send her in?’

The doctor acknowledged her and the nurse left.

There was a knock on the door and Bodie strode in followed by a concerned looking Wendy. His face was closed, any feelings buried deep inside him.

‘Heard about Doyle, sir, from Wendy.’ He turned towards the doctor. ‘Is that why you sent me out the room?’

He addressed Cowley. ‘Is it that serious? How sick is he... really?’

Cowley replied. ‘He is seriously ill, 3.7. However, there are other solutions, and they are being explored. Mr Burton-Jones has referred his case to someone who knows more about Doyle’s symptoms than most. You’ll meet her shortly. She’s newly trained in this sort of thing. Recently been working in Milan. She’s read through Doyle’s medical notes and hopefully has some idea of what to do for him.’

Bodie snorted. ‘She’d better be good,’ he glanced across at his boss, and added belligerently, ‘... well you’re the one who’s always saying how much it costs to train us. Is Doyle really going to be OK in the hands of a jumped up nurse?’

‘He’ll be fine in the hands of this jumped up nurse!’

A cool, clear voice rang out from the doorway. All in the room turned to watch as Grace Walker entered. Robert Burton-Jones glowered at Bodie and smiled at Grace. Cowley gave a slight bow of the head. Bodie stood there, his normally pale face colouring with embarrassment.

‘I’m so sorry Grace. I didn’t know it was you. Doyle told me you’d gone to Italy...’ his voice petered out and he held out his hand by way of placation.

The young woman ignored his outstretched palm and hugged him instead. She kissed him lightly on his nose.

‘Don’t worry so much Bodie. I was taught by the best.’

The others in the room watched the scenario, aware the dynamics had changed.

Grace turned to face them. ‘I think I’d better explain – you all look so bewildered!’

George Cowley suddenly broke in to a laugh, the strain leaching from his voice. ‘Of course! The security check. I hadn’t realised. You and Doyle were a couple for a while, weren’t you? That’s where you know this reprobate from.’ He jerked his thumb towards Bodie.

Grace gave a little smile. ‘Hm, yes. I have a habit of embarrassing him.’ Her demeanour changed as she spoke. She seemed to be struggling to keep a professionalism in her tone.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I found out Patient X was Ray. It was a real shock. He always seemed fit and healthy. I read the report on where he was found and in what condition, and it gave me an idea of what might be the cause of the infection.’ She turned to the tall doctor. ‘Have you considered MRSA or Weil’s Disease?’

Burton-Jones shook his head. ‘We ruled out MRSA early on... but Weil’s Disease... I never even considered the possibility. It’s rare. I’ll order further blood tests.’

 

During the following days, Doyle was unsure where he was. Disembodied voices, strange shadowy shapes and the constant presence of people in his room, taking his blood pressure, temperature, wetting his mouth to ease his chapped lips. The occasional use of an oxygen mask left him disorientated. His head ached all the time and his body felt as if it were betraying him. The wounds were sore and even the smallest amount of movement left him gasping in pain and nauseous.

Gradually, over the next few days, he began to feel... _different. Better was probably too optimistic,_ he thought as he woke one night, drenched in sweat yet again. _Probably not as sick as I was,_ seemed to fit the bill.

Later that morning, as he fought his way out of the mire of his personal twilight zone, Doyle became aware of a wonderfully fresh citrus fragrance in the air. It filled his nose and was such a marked difference to the pervading aroma of antiseptic which surrounded him on a daily basis, that he struggled to trace the source. He just wanted to turn over, but even such a small movement was painful and almost beyond his strength.

Across the room, Grace heard a quiet moan and turned towards the bed quickly to help him. She rolled him over, avoiding the various drips that hung from a metal frame and snaked towards his arms. Slowly, and painfully, Doyle hotched himself up into a sitting position while Grace plumped his pillows and propped him up. He opened his eyes, and squinted in the subdued lighting, surprised that even such a small amount of movement should leave him breathless. He saw Grace, and a smile lit up his face.

‘Gracie?’ His voice was a rasping whisper.

She sat on the side of the bed and took Doyle’s hand. She kissed his fingers.

‘Hello sweetheart,’ she said. ‘How do you feel? You did give us all a scare!’

‘Weak as water,’ replied Doyle. ‘Where am I and how long have I been here?’ He ran a painfully thin hand through his hair. ‘Things are really jumbled.’

‘As usual sunshine, you got into trouble and I had to rescue you,’ came Bodie’s rich tone. He was seated in a chair near the window.

Doyle grinned weakly. ‘It was your turn, idiot,’ he said.

Bodie grinned happily, glad his partner had finally surfaced from sleep. ‘Do you remember anything at all?’ ‘Sort of,’ Doyle grimaced while trying to recollect events. ‘It’s all a bit hazy.’

Before either Grace or Bodie could fill in the details, the door opened and George Cowley entered the room. He took stock of the situation, and a rare smile touched his mouth. ‘Ah, Doyle. Glad to see you are back with us after so long. How are you laddie?’ Doyle shrugged his shoulders, surprised again at the amount of discomfort any movement caused. ‘Not sure, sir.’

Cowley motioned for Bodie and Grace to leave the room. He took a chair nearest the bed and began talking.

 

Some two hours later. Cowley emerged from the side ward, walking stiffly towards the doctor’s office, He rapped smartly on the door and was called in. Burton-Jones handed the Major a cup of coffee, He took a bottle of whiskey from his desk and poured a liberal slug of the spirit into Cowley’s cup, looked aghast.

‘It’s blended, George. Only fit for livening up a coffee. I thought you might need it after talking to young Doyle. How’s he doing?’

Cowley eased himself into a chair and gratefully sipped the drink. ‘He’s fine – gave as much information as he could remember about his capture and the two lads who took him. It’s two factions locking horns. I’ve notified MI5 – it’s their bailiwick now. I’m not going to involve CI5 is something that is little more than an argument over who’s the more powerful.’

He sat back in the chair, and regarded the doctor over his cup. ‘How long before Doyle can resume active duties?’

Burton-Jones looked surprised.

‘George! He’s been very ill. Grace Jackson was correct in her suggestion he might have contracted Weil’s Disease. He’ll need some time to work up to his past level of fitness.’

Cowley sighed heavily. ‘I know, I know. The things we ask these young men to do – there’s always more work than we can cope with. The world is changing Robert, and not for the better.’

He reached across for a biscuit. ‘What is Weil’s Disease anyway?’

The other man cleared his throat and put down his cup. ‘According to Grace, it’s leptospirosis, a bacterial infection...’

Cowley looked surprised. ‘An infection? Is that all...’

Burton-Jones shook his head. ‘Oh George, if it were only that simple. In most cases it causes flu like symptoms. However, in its most severe form, it is known as Weil’s Disease. It can be life threatening, causing organ failure and internal bleeding. Doyle was extremely lucky.’

Cowley looked up grimly. ‘Do I have to have all my agents vaccinated against it?’ he asked.

The doctor smiled. ‘No George. Doyle became infected because his wounds were left open and untended. The disease is carried in the urine of rats; that area is rife with them. I’m surmising that his being left lying in that filthy water for some days was the main contributing factor. His coughing, the lack of response to the more conventional drugs and his high temperature were all as a result of it.’

Cowley reached for his drink. Some days the job seemed hardly worth it at all.

 

For the next couple of weeks, Ray Doyle struggled to recover. The cocktail of drugs prescribed for him by Grace left him tired and frequently sick. She suggested an intravenous drip to bring the nourishment his body needed so desperately. With the infection under control, the healing process began. Slowly he began to eat, at first just tiny amounts of bland hospital food. The headache went and his wounds began to lose their tight shiny appearance as the infection was slowly destroyed. He began to take an interest in things although the perpetual tiredness irked him.

Doyle was lying in bed, watching the traffic on the Thames when his regular nurse came in. Doyle liked her. She was plump and pretty and didn’t take him too seriously when his temper flared.

‘Morning Ray,’ she said, bustling around his bed. ‘ Major step today my lad. You’re going to get up. Have a shower, Get that mop of hair into some semblance of order.

’Doyle looked at her. ‘What, with all this stuff stuck in my arm?’ He waved a thin limb, bruised and sprouting tubes like a Christmas tree. He looked slyly up at her. ‘Come on Paula. You could always give me a bed bath,’ he suggested.

She laughed loudly and sat on the side of the bed. ‘You are feeling better. It’s about time you stood on your own two feet. You’ve been lying here far too long, being waited on hand, foot and finger. That lovely friend of yours spends most of his time asleep in that chair and Dr Walker is in and out like a fly round a honey pot.’

She busied herself prepping items on the trolley she had wheeled in. ‘Today, everything comes out. The tubes and needles. No more intravenous drugs, although I’ll leave one line in just in case. Now we start on getting you up and about. Doctor’s orders,’ she added.

Doyle propped himself up while Paula plumped up the pillows. She settled him back down again, her cool hands taking his pulse, and securing the blood pressure cuff to his arm. For a few minutes she performed the routines she had carried out for weeks; blood pressure, pulse, temperature. All were carefully recorded in her neat handwriting. Then she swabbed Doyle’s arm and gently began to remove the needles and clips which had been his lifeline for drugs, foods and liquid. He squirmed as she worked on his arms. ‘Ray you’re such a baby,’ she scolded. ‘Here,’ she said handing him a pad of cotton wool. ’Press down on this, it’ll help stop bruising and bleeding.’

Eventually Paula pronounced herself happy with her work. Apart from one cannula ‘just in case’ Doyle was no longer dependent on an array of drips to keep him healthy. He laid back, eyes closed, entirely happy with the world for a moment. It didn’t last.

‘Come on Ray. Let’s get you in the shower.’ Paula carefully removed the blanket from her patient and helped him swing his legs round. She was shocked at how thin he was; ribs clearly visible, and his collar bones so prominent.

He shook slightly as he stood up, and clutched the edges of the hospital pyjama jacket around his body. She helped steady him holding him tightly as he took his first tentative steps in several weeks. ‘Wash my back for me?’ asked Doyle as after some effort, he reached the shower room.

Paula said nothing, but led him into a large room, There was a bath, a couple of shower units with plastic curtains, limp and sorry looking, each holding a bath stool. It was a basic room, clean and serviceable. She handed him his wash bag – thoughtfully provided by Bodie – and sat herself down .

Doyle stared at her. Paula gave a him a cool appraising look. ‘If you think I’m leaving you alone you have another think coming young man.’ She scolded him but her eyes betrayed her amusement. ‘You’ve nothing I haven’t seen before, and I don’t shock anymore. You’ve been bed ridden for ages, and you tottered down here like a ninety year old. Now get your stuff off and get washed.’

Doyle moved into one of the shower cubicles and pulled the curtain across. He sat carefully on the stool, and divested himself of the institutional blue pyjamas he’d been wearing. Paula saw a thin arm come round the curtain as Doyle threw the unflattering garments on to the floor.

‘Messy bugger’, she called out cheerfully.

Doyle turned out the contents of the wash bag, hoping Bodie had had the sense to pack what he actually needed. Shampoo, soap and a razor tumbled out, along with shaving cream and a flannel. Doyle breathed a sigh of relief at his partner’s choices.

Twenty minutes later, the room now completely steamed up Doyle finally switched off the taps.

He called across the room . ‘Can I have towel please... and some clothes.’

Paula handed him a towel along with a pair of pyjama bottoms. Shortly afterwards he pushed back the curtain, pleased to see that Paula had procured a wheelchair from somewhere. Gratefully he collapsed in it and she wheeled him back to his room.

When Doyle was back in his room, Paula was able to run a critical eye over her patient. The shower had clearly done some good. His stubbly beard had gone, and his hair was washed. The bruising had faded further, and the wounds appeared clean and less livid. For the first time in a while, she noted his eyes had some sparkle in them. He seemed more relaxed now, as if his confidence had improved.

She was just about to comment when the door was flung open and Bodie strode in. He planted a firm kiss on the nurse and turned to look at his partner.

‘At long last, mate. You’ve returned to your usual state. Glad to see that scruffy beard has gone,’ he helped himself to some grapes from the bedside table, ’but you need to book a visit with a decent hairdresser...’

He dodged the paperback that Doyle half heartedly threw at him.

‘Mr Bodie! Keep your remarks to yourself,’ scolded Paula. ‘Ray’s done really well this morning, although I do see your point,’ she added.

Doyle hauled himself up and stared at his reflection in the wash basin mirror. His newly shaved face was pale and gaunt, and his damp hair reached his shoulders. He gently prodded the scar tissue on his shoulder and chest, relieved to find it wasn’t too sore. The neat stitches holding the jagged edges of the wounds marched along like serried ranks of small black ants. He noted the lively colour palette of bruises on his torso – shades of green, mauve and blue interspersed with darker, uglier black areas. He absently scratched his chest, finding a strip of plaster across his nipple.

‘We covered the piercing in case of further infection,’ said Paula. ‘I’ll remove it now. Lay down please.’

Doyle dutifully lay down, screwed up his face and gritted his teeth. He felt a gentle tugging and then nothing.

‘Hurry up Paula. Just give it a rip...’

‘He’s a man, he can take pain and suffering,’ rejoined Bodie.

‘I’ve done it already,’ replied Paula. ‘So much for being tough and strong Ray.’

The friendly exchange was interrupted by the appearance of Grace, the white doctor’s coat doing little to hide her lithe figure. She grabbed Doyle’s file and read through the recent observations and notes. ‘You’re leaving us today Ray. George has suggested you spend a week or so at a private clinic - MI5 owns the place. Just to get you up to strength again. Lovely countryside and the food is good. You’ll enjoy it.’

‘It’s alright for some I suppose,’ snorted Bodie. ‘Get yourself caught, beaten up, wait for your mate to rescue you then lie in bed for a couple of weeks being looked after by pretty nurses before getting sent to a private clinic. I should try it sometime.’

Doyle gave his most winsome smile and pulled the bedclothes around his neck.

 

The ten days Doyle spent at Townley Lodge weren’t quite as relaxing as he had hoped.

Firstly, he was accompanied by the burly form of Macklin, armed with a set of ‘exercises’, (although Doyle privately thought it was Cowley’s idea of punishing him for the idiocy of getting caught.).

Secondly, there was a strict no alcohol rule and thirdly, most of his waking moments were consumed by thoughts of the reappearance of Grace Walker.

Lounging in the TV room, one evening, Doyle recalled her involvement with the book club where they had first met. He wanted an interest; something completely different from his work with CI5; somewhere he could be himself and where nobody knew what he did. The club seemed to tick all his boxes. He enjoyed reading and the meetings. He’d made new friends and he’d met Grace. However, it quickly became apparent that CI5 owned his very soul! He’d missed some meetings, had to leave during others. Eventually he’d bowed out, before fate intervened and he met up with her again.

The four months they spent together were the best of times. Being an ‘army brat’ she was used to the clandestine nature of his job, the unsocial hours and the unexplained absences. They made each other laugh, shared similar likes and dislikes and would fiercely debate any number of topics over a bottle of wine.

Their love life was fairly spectacular too, Doyle recalled. When it moved on from a quick rough and tumble to something far more meaningful, Doyle wasn’t sure. All he knew was that his time with her was fleeting – she had told him about the opportunity in Milan on their first proper date - and he wanted to make sure any memories were good.

He was musing on this, when Bodie strode in the clinic. He looked around the comfortable lounge and spotting his partner, quickly walked over and threw himself in an oversized armchair, hooking one long leg over the arm. A waiter approached him.

‘I’ll have a small gin and tonic please,’ he said.

The waiter sighed theatrically and stared at Doyle.

‘Doesn’t your visitor know the rules sir?’ he asked.

Doyle shook his head, stifling his laughter. ‘No he doesn’t.’

Flourishing a pad and pen, the waiter reeled off the available drinks. ‘Tea, coffee, both decaffeinated, green tea, fruit tea, fruit juices and water. What would you like sir?’

Bodie looked askance. ‘Are you kidding?’ he said.

The waiter shook his head. ‘No sir. This is a private clinic for the purposes of convalescence. Diet is an integral part of our treatment here. Now, what will you have?’

‘Ordinary tea please. Any chance of some cake... or biscuits?’ he asked hopefully.

‘No sir, there isn’t. I’ll bring the tea – would that be for two, Mr Doyle?’ Doyle nodded, still holding in laughter that threatened to bubble over.

The waiter left the room as Bodie stared across at his friend.

‘How have you survived?’ he wondered aloud. Doyle grinned at him.

‘It’s not bad. I feel much better and I’m not as tired as I was.’

‘Ah, but you’re not yourself sunshine, I can tell.’ Bodie swung his leg back and straightened up. ‘What’s going on in that untidy little head?’

Any answer was delayed by the arrival of the tea, and mercifully, a pack of custard creams.

‘From the staff kitchen, sir,’ said the waiter, ‘but only for you. Mr Doyle is not allowed.’

Bodie beamed from ear to ear. Seizing the packet he grabbed a couple of biscuits and crammed them in his mouth.

‘Missed my dinner, driving down here,’ he said, showering the area with crumbs.

Doyle smiled at his friend and picked up a mug of tea.

‘I need to get back to work,’ he stated. ‘I’ve got too much time to think here, doing next to nothing. Once Macklin’s had his evil way with me, there’s not much to do. I swim, watch a bit of telly, read a bit, and that’s it.’

‘I hear you have had other visitors though,’ replied Bodie, slurping down his tea, while propping the packet of biscuits between his thighs.

Doyle frowned. ‘Didn’t know I was being that closely monitored,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody George Cowley again I suppose.’

‘Our esteemed boss thought Dr Walker should keep a watchful eye on her star patient. Make sure you don’t relapse...’ Bodie waved his hand around, shedding even more crumbs. ‘... and she obviously knows you quite well... with what you two got up to... I assume that would class her as a friend... of sorts... I suppose...’

Doyle remained uncharacteristically quiet, slumped in his chair.

‘Hm,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been thinking about her a lot lately.’

Bodie stopped chewing and narrowed his eyes.

‘Hang on a minute sunshine. Is the good doctor breaking down that wall around your heart?’ He looked pained. ‘Please don’t go all Mills and Boon on me.’

Doyle looked up. ‘I think I love her,’ he said simply.

‘Life... it worked with her. She’s uncomplicated, knew about my job and didn’t kick off if I got called away suddenly. We shared the same sort of interests. I knew she was going to Milan...’ he paused and stared out of the window. ‘We didn’t talk about it at all after she told me. It’s her career after all, and I didn’t think she would want to see me again.’

He slouched further into the roomy armchair, looking lost in its depths. He continued.

‘Neither of us made any promises about the future. I thought she’d either stay in Italy, or go where the money is for that sort of expertise. I didn’t see the point in mooching around for six months with my heart on my sleeve...’

Doyle looked embarrassed, as if he’d said too much. ‘... but I really missed her,’ he finished.

Bodie assessed this information quietly. When his partner got this reflective, it was time to watch him carefully.

Doyle’s track record with long term girlfriends wasn’t that successful. Twice he had given a woman his all, and it had ended badly. Anne Holly merely wanted a project to mould into her idea of a successful businessman, and Sally had made no pretence that her desire for a top notch career was a higher priority than marriage. Since then, Doyle had satisfied his body if not his emotions, with a few one night stands, and a couple of slightly longer term relationships.

In fact, thought Bodie to himself, Grace had really been a breath of fresh air for Doyle. He recalled the two of them laughing and joking together and the small affectionate touches when they thought no-one was looking. His face betrayed nothing as he replied.

‘Maybe she feels the same mate.’

Doyle shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She’s quite the expert in her field now. Can’t see she’d want to go out with me again. After all, she’s seen me at my worst. Probably thinks what a loser I am!

‘Idiot!’ snorted Bodie. ‘Grace doesn’t see things like that. Everything was done on her terms and was her choice!’ His voice took on an aggressive timbre. ‘Christ almighty Doyle, she’s spent more time with you than is humanly good for one person! She’s wiped the sweat from your brow, fixed the drips in your arm and helped the nurse wash you, dress your wounds and generally make sure you’re OK. She’s spent more time sitting in that armchair, watching you, than I have... and I’ve been here nearly all the time.’

He threw his arms in the air and swore under his breath.

‘You can be such a pathetic little tosser at times!’

Doyle coloured slightly, but all the fight seemed to leave him. He slumped back in the chair. ‘Eat your biscuits,’ he muttered.

 

Bodie visited a couple more times while Doyle recuperated, but the subject of Grace wasn’t mentioned again.

When Doyle was finally discharged, they continued what had become an evening routine. Doyle would cook while Bodie provided the entertainment; he regaled Doyle nightly with banter about football, colleagues at work and his own exploits in the nightclubs. Even so, Bodie sensed a change in his partner that ran far deeper than that caused by his recent illness. There was a wariness in Doyle’s eyes that hadn’t been there before; a slightly closed off look as if he wanted to keep something from view.

Driving home from Doyle’s flat one evening, Bodie caught sight of the Capri’s petrol gauge, and swore as he noticed he was running on empty. Pulling into a late night garage on the Euston Road, he hefted the pump nozzle into the car and waited while the liquid flowed into the tank. He was just locking the petrol cap when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He half turned and was rewarded with a dazzling smile from Grace.

‘Hello Bodie,’ she exclaimed. ‘Got a late pass tonight?’

He grinned back at her, and stood up. ‘Just coming back from Doyle’s. He’s OK, but not quite one hundred percent yet. Have to keep an eye on the boy.’

‘Weil’s Disease is a nasty one,’ she commented. ‘... and Doyle had it quite badly. He was lucky not to have any lasting symptoms.’

‘Apart from a large dose of self pity,’ remarked Bodie. ‘He’s wallowing in that lately. Might even drown himself... if we’re lucky.’ The elegant brows rose as he smiled at the woman.

‘Oh dear,’ said Grace, softly, ‘Is he still down?’ Bodie saw a look of genuine concern touch her features. He stopped short from making another throw away comment.

‘Yes, he is,’ he replied, aware that Grace really was concerned.

She put her hand on his arm, as if to stay him for a chat, before withdrawing quickly. Bodie noticed she had blushed a little.

‘I have to go, Bodie. I’ve got a lift home. Can I phone you tomorrow?’ she asked. Bodie nodded assent.

He glanced at the smart saloon car. Expensive tinted windows blanked out any occupants.

‘Boyfriend?’ he asked.

Grace smiled back at him. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Someone who has just given me the talking too I needed. My Dad.’

 

Six weeks to the day after he was found, Doyle returned to CI5. He’d worked tirelessly to regain his fitness, and Macklin, ever the hardest of taskmasters, pronounced him fit for duty. He resumed his partnership with Bodie; the team was back in harness. However, Bodie noticed a subtle change in his friend. Within the confines of his job, Doyle was as reliable and as snarky as ever. The easy banter between them, and the silly jokes remained. After work, the differences were more noticeable. Doyle’s reluctance to put his hand in his pocket in the pub was gone, and he seemed to enjoy the company of his male colleagues more. He was disinclined to get involved with women, even when they made their interest clear. Bodie detected an unease when his friend was targeted by the more persistent of ladies.

In an effort to cheer Doyle up, Bodie arranged a night out with two women he knew. Despite a good meal accompanied by a couple of bottles of decent wine, the atmosphere was strained. After Doyle successfully ignored yet another attempt at conversation from the beautiful younger sister of Bodie’s companion, Bodie had followed him to the bar.

‘What exactly are you playing at mate?’ he whispered. ‘I’ve set you up with the second most beautiful girl in the world, and you can barely talk to her.’

Doyle turned on his friend, and poked Bodie on the shoulder, his anger out of all proportion to the comment.

‘I didn’t fucking ask you to set me up with someone’s sister. Don’t assume Bodie, that a shag heals everything, because it doesn’t. In fact,’ Doyle’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had surfaced, ‘it’s really not worth the effort to impress some little princess I’ll never see again. Now I’m going home. Tell Krysta, or whatever her name is, I’ve got a head ache.’

Without a backward glance Doyle stormed out of the bar.

Next morning Doyle did something almost unheard of within CI5. He rang in sick.

Betty took the call, reporting to George Cowley, the vague and rambling conversation she’d had with Doyle.

‘How did 4.5 sound?’ asked Cowley. Betty remained quiet. Then she closed the door to her boss’s office, and took her customary chair at his desk. Cowley was surprised, but said nothing. Betty was far too professional to make waves in a still sea.

She gazed levelly at her boss. ‘He sounded very confused, upset and drunk,’ she answered. ‘He apologised several times, but has asked for a week’s sick leave while he sorts out some personal things. He feels his mind is not fully on the job and he would be a liability to Bodie at the moment.’

Cowley steepled his fingers together and said gruffly, ‘And what do you think, Betty?’

He knew his assistant could assess a situation almost as well as he could.

Betty answered quickly. ‘I share your opinion sir. Doyle is reviewing his future.’

Cowley suddenly grinned broadly at the attractive young woman. ‘You are a dark horse Betty. How did you guess...’

‘The files you’ve requested on Doyle, sir. Not his work stuff, but the interviews with Dr Ross after certain situations he’s been in. I think you’ve noticed some changes in him too.’

‘You’re right of course,’ he replied. ‘The doctors at the clinic noticed how the situation was developing. It’s quite clear what’s going on. He can have two days to sort himself out – any longer and he’ll be back with Macklin for further assessment!’

Betty stood up and moved briskly towards the door. ‘I’ll make some calls, sir. Leave it to me.’

 

Doyle spent the morning nursing a hangover the size of Texas, and a huge cup of black coffee. As if to punish himself even more, he sat at the kitchen table, not allowing his tired body the luxury of lying in bed.

About noon, the doorbell rang. Doyle pushed himself up and tottered along the hallway. He peered blearily through the peephole, sighed, and slid back the security bolts.

Bodie stood outside holding a shopping bag. He pushed past his friend and entered the kitchen. Without a word he filled the kettle again, and began to unpack the bag. Fruit, salad stuff, wine, fresh bread rolls, a bag of frozen chips and two large steaks appeared.

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a small box which he held out to Doyle. ‘By the way. I found this on the barge. Got it cleaned up and straightened.’

Doyle took the box and opened it. Inside was the silver bangle his sister Kath had given him years ago. He smiled gratefully at Bodie, then on a whim, gave his friend a hug.

‘Thanks mate. I thought I’d lost this. Kath spent a fortune on it when she didn’t have much money. It’s sort of sentimental... you know?’

Bodie coloured slightly and gently pushed Doyle away.

‘Now, now, don’t get all soppy on me. I thought you’d want it back, and it needed some expert attention.’

Any further conversation stopped as the kettle boiled and Bodie made tea before turning round to face Doyle.

‘I’m not staying. Just wanted to make sure you’d got some food in. Get yourself cleaned up too. You’re getting a visitor in fifteen minutes. Be on your best behaviour.’

He gulped down the tea and left a confused looking Doyle.

After Bodie left, he poked around the bag, finding a bag of mushrooms and an onion as well. Mystified by his partner’s comment, and certain Cowley was coming round for lunch and a lecture, Doyle dragged himself to the bathroom, where divesting himself of his clothes, he stood under the shower, letting the water ease the tensions in his muscles. A few minutes later, washed and shampooed, he stood dripping on the floor while he cleaned his teeth and ran a shaver round his stubbled chin. Feeling more human now, he had just finished dressing when the doorbell rang again. Doyle made his way warily to the entrance. With more bravado then he felt, he opened the door without checking the caller.

Instead of the gruff head of CI5, Grace stood outside in the hall.

‘Can I come in Ray?’

Doyle stood there, all the breath rushing out of him. He felt lightheaded, and leaned against the door frame.

‘Yeah... ‘erm come in.’ He felt tongue tied and idiotic.

‘I’m expecting Cowley round soon – probably to tear another strip off me...’

Grace shut the door and moved into Doyle’s kitchen. ‘I’m the guest Ray, not Mr Cowley.’

 

Contentedly full, with the plates stacked on the coffee table, and the last dregs of the wine finished, Doyle lay back on the sofa, eyes closed. Across from him, Grace was curled up like a cat in an armchair. She watched the man, the dark shadows around his eyes, the unruly hair framing his face. He wasn’t as thin as when she had last seen him, the definition of strength in his arms marked under the sleeves of his tee shirt. She noticed, with a frisson of pleasure, the dark hair on his belly where the shirt had ridden up, and the silver chain around his neck. As if he knew she was staring at him, he suddenly opened his eyes wide.

‘So here we are...’ he said.

‘I spoke to Bodie...’ she began.

They both laughed nervously.

Grace began to speak quickly, her words tumbling and tripping over themselves.

‘I spoke to Bodie yesterday. He’s really worried about you. Betty phoned him and told him to call me. He told me you weren’t yourself. Didn’t understand what was going on with you... said you seemed preoccupied... he mentioned you’d spoken about being in love, but I didn’t get the gist of it... Bodie doesn’t do emotion very well does he? He said you’re drinking more with the lads, too. Not interested in sex...’

Doyle mumbled at her comment.

‘Say again. I missed that,’ she said,

Doyle took a deep breath and spoke clearly.

‘It’s not that I’m disinterested in sex at all,’ he remarked. ‘I’m just tired of meaningless sex. Bodie needs it like some people need a quick drink. It means nothing to him. Anyway,’ he muttered, ‘I can’t raise an eyebrow at the moment. After a day at work all I want to do is sleep.’

Grace smiled. ‘You’ll feel better in time. I don’t think you realise how ill you were, Ray. Don’t be so down on Bodie either. He’s only trying to help. I think you’ll find he’s just spouting hot air most of the time. He seems rather settled with Cora.’

‘He is,’ commented Doyle. ‘that’s what I mean about meaningless sex. Can’t understand why he’s still chasing unsuitable women.’

Grace spoke again. ‘It works for them, Ray. They both know the score. How the situation could change at any time. My Dad said the same thing...’ her voice trailed off.

They sat in companionable silence.

‘Grace...’

‘Ray...’

They both laughed again.

‘I missed you, you know,’ said Doyle carefully.

Grace smiled at him‘... and I missed you Ray. I loved Milan, but I kept thinking of you. How much better it would have been if you had come over for a long weekend now and again.’

‘What did your Dad say?’ asked Doyle. It seemed very important to him all of a sudden.

‘He said you’re the best thing that happened to me and I’d be a fool to lose touch with you again,’ she said.

Doyle’s face was a study. Hesitantly he shuffled upright and rested his arms on his knees.

‘When I was in the clinic I kept thinking about the future. Apart from Mum and Kath, and Bodie, there isn’t anyone who really cares for me, and no one I care for... apart from you. My job is dangerous – I might not make it through one day. And then I got to thinking that the last thing in the world I want to do is cause you any hurt. It seemed a no win situation.’

Grace moved over to sit next to him.

‘I loved the times we spent together,’ Doyle continued. He looked tired and vulnerable. ‘Best times I’ve had.’

‘Then why don’t we start again,’ asked Grace. ‘I know how precarious your life is Ray – I’ve lived with it all my own life. I watched Mum when Dad first went to The Troubles. He was bomb disposal. She was so strong for us kids. Now he’s deskbound she worries more about his health than ever. Why can’t we try?’

Doyle said nothing.

‘Think about it,’ said Grace. ‘I love you Ray, and I want to be a part of your world. Not CI5 – that’s your job, and I would never ask you to give it up on my account. That would be unfair. I want to enjoy your days off with you’ times we can spend together. I left you once Ray Doyle, and I don’t want to do it again. I’d come running if you asked.’

She got up to leave. ‘You’ve got my number, it’s not changed.’

She walked towards the front door as Doyle trailed after her. There were no kisses goodbye. A brief hug and she was gone.

Doyle tidied up the remains of lunch, did the washing up and made some tea.

He sat in the lounge until the shadows grew long. He neither read or watched television. He just sat, arms wrapped round himself. Eventually he got up to put the lights one. It was nearly eleven at night. He pulled the phone towards him and dialled a number. The phone rang a few times before it was answered.

‘Gracie, can I take you out tomorrow. A picnic... somewhere in the country?’

He was rewarded with a small sigh, so full of longing it almost broke his heart. Life was going to get better.


End file.
